“No, no,” said Colonel Hauton; “who the deuce would be _bored_ with being broiled at this time of day? Miss Drakelow--Miss Chatterton, give us some more music, I beseech you; for I like music better in a morning than at night--the mornings, when one can’t go out, are so confoundedly long and heavy.” The young ladies played, and Miss Hauton seated herself apart from the group of musicians, upon a _bergère_, leaning on her hand, in a melancholy attitude. Buckhurst Falconer followed and sat down beside her, endeavouring to entertain her with some witty anecdote. She smiled with effort, listened with painful attention, and the moment the anecdote was ended, her eyes wandered out of the window. Buckhurst rose, vacated his seat, and before any of the other gentlemen who had gathered round could avail themselves of that envied place, Miss Hauton, complaining of the intolerable heat, removed nearer to the window, to an ottoman, one half of which was already so fully occupied by a large dog of her brother’s, that she was in no danger from any other intruder. Some of the gentlemen, who were not blessed with much sagacity, followed, to talk to her of the beauty of the dog which she was stroking; but to an eulogium upon its long ears, and even to a quotation from Shakspeare about dewlaps, she listened with so vacant an air, that her followers gave up the point, and successively retired, leaving her to her meditations. Godfrey, who had kept aloof, had in the mean time been looking at some books that lay on a reading table.--_Maria Hauton_ was written in the first page of several of them.--All were novels--some French, and some German, of a sort which he did not like. “What have you there, Mr. Percy?” said Miss Hauton.--“Nothing worth your notice, I am afraid. I dare say you do not like novels.” “Pardon me, I like some novels very much.” “Which?” said Miss Hauton, rising and approaching the table. “All that are just representations of life and manners, or of the human heart,” said Godfrey, “provided they are--” “Ah! the human heart!” interrupted Miss Hauton: “the heart only can understand the heart--who, in modern times, can describe the human heart?” “Not to speak of foreigners--Miss Burney--Mrs. Inchbald--Mrs. Opie,” said Godfrey. “True; and yet I--and yet--” said Miss Hauton, pausing and sighing. “And yet that was not what I was thinking of,” she should have said, had she finished her sentence with the truth; but this not being convenient, she left it unfinished, and began a new one, with “Some of these novels are sad trash--I hope Mr. Godfrey Percy will not judge of my taste by them: that would be condemning me for the crimes of my bookseller, who will send us down everything new that comes out.” Godfrey disclaimed the idea of condemning or blaming Miss Hauton’s taste: “he could not,” he said, “be so presumptuous, so impertinent.”